


negotiations.

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Casual Sex, Complicated Relationships, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 19:10:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17106467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Crowley and Bobby have a neatly negotiated relationship.





	negotiations.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spiralicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiralicious/gifts).



> For spiralicious' Fandom Stocking! Have a good holiday! <3

Bobby shifts forward in the kitchen, turning over the sausages as they sizzle merrily away in the pan. In his head, he catalogues exactly what he needs to get done today – there’s that junker he needs to piece apart, rip out the engine and set it aside, maybe save a few more of the fixtures from  inside, although the actual shell of the thing is _totalled_ ; he needs to get started on that Japanese translation for Sam and Dean before they make it to Pasadena in a day or two – assuming there’s no delay – and—

Bobby stops, freezing in his place, and he takes the frying pan off the heat, holding it away from the crackle of the gas. After a minute or two, the sizzle of the pan quietens down as the pan loses its heat, and he stands in the silence.

He is aware of the sound of his own breathing, louder’n it used to be, when he was a lot younger. In the distance, he can hear a few of the cars speeding past on the highway, but that’s not it. He closes his eyes, and he _feels_ for it.

Any good hunter can do this, whether you’re a hunter like them, catching demons and ghouls and monsters, or whether you’re out in the woods, going after ducks and deer. It ain’t about hearing, exactly, and it ain’t about something as mushy or stupid as feeling for auras: it’s probably, Bobby is aware in a sort of distant, academic way, just something as simple as a slight difference in scent or temperature that comes from something else being in the room with you. Opening his eyes, he glances at the windowpane, but it’s a sunny day, and he can’t see a reflection in it.

It’s behind his left shoulder, though, by the doorway. Man-sized, maybe a person.

Forcing his body to relax, he puts his pan back on the hob, listening to the crackle as the fat heats up again, and he lets himself idly whistle to himself, not letting that sixth sense tune out… As soon as it moves, he whips around, throwing out the pan behind him, and he hears the familiar _click_ of a short finger and thumb against one another.

Crowley stands with his hands in his pockets, idly examining the sausages where they hover on the air, spits of fat and grease scattered around them the same way stars are scattered around planets, and at the frying pan.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Bobby demands. “I said Sunday.”

“I’m sure it’s Sunday somewhere,” Crowley purrs, smiling his insufferable smile, and in one smooth, easy movement, he grasps at the frying pan and drags it through the frozen mess of grease and meat on the air, moving forward and setting it all back on the stovetop, letting the sausages get back to cooking. To do this, he must stand shoulder to shoulder with Bobby, and Bobby can feel the heat radiating from the demon, feels the vague desire to grab him by the back of his neck and bend him back over the table, teach him a lesson. Something tells him that’s exactly the lesson Crowley’s hoping to be taught, so he crosses his arms over his chest, and scowls down at him. “Oh, Robert, _really_ , must we be so hung up on dates and times? I’m a busy man, I’ve a schedule—”

“Then write me down in your schedule,” Bobby retorts. “Don’t just _pop_ in.”

Crowley frowns, his lips shifting out into something too similar to a pout for Bobby to take seriously.

“Thought you might have time for a tumble,” Crowley murmurs, his hands sliding to touch Bobby’s hips.

“I _don’t_ have time. I have time on Sunday.”

“But, _darling_ —”

“Don’t you call me darling, you jumped up little ass. This ain’t an arrangement you can sneak and sidle your way around – you come around when I say you come around, you don’t overstay your welcome, and if you loiter about any longer, I’m gonna grab that rocksalt shotgun there and—”

“Just a kiss,” Crowley wheedles, squeezing Bobby’s hips, and Bobby scowls. This isn’t a romantic relationship – he isn’t gonna let himself fall into that, isn’t gonna let himself fuss over whether Crowley _likes_ him or not, isn’t gonna treat it like dates and dinners and all that. Crowley’s a _male_ demon, to start with, and the _demon_ part is there too: he comes around, they go to bed, Crowley _leaves_. That’s the deal. Crowley ain’t Karen, he ain’t a woman, he ain’t… _a lover_.

“To seal the deal,” Bobby says, firmly, and shifts the pan to keep the sausages from burning. “I kiss you, you _leave_ , and I see you Sunday.”

“Fine,” Crowley murmurs. “Goodness, you’d make an excellent crossroads demon, you know. Such a hard bargain you drive…” Bobby grabs him by the back of his neck, drags him into the kiss, and he does kiss him hard, now that they’re more established, feels Crowley’s tongue slide against his own, feels one of Crowley’s hands ghost over his neck. They pull apart with a wet sound, Crowley’s lips smiling, and Bobby is aware of the thumb that draws through the too-long stubble on his cheek.

There’s something in Crowley’s face Bobby doesn’t think he’s seen before, a kind of uncertainty in his eyes, a hesitation. He’s normally dramatic, obvious about everything in his theatrical sort of way, but this is subtler, less easy to see.

“You need a shave,” Crowley murmurs, his thumb a pleasant shift over the bristled hair under his palm, and Bobby’s throat feels thick and heavy at the _tenderness_ of the movement, at the unnecessary nature of it. For just a second, for a half-second, even, he wants the demon to stay, wants him to sit and drink his stupid tea that Bobby buys with his normal groceries, wants him to talk as Bobby eats his breakfast, so that Bobby doesn’t have to sit in this big old house alone, and work outside alone, and translate that stupid page alone, without anybody else – except all the other hunters, at the end of the phoneline. For just a second.

“You need to leave,” Bobby replies, and Crowley smiles at him before flickering from sight.

Bobby turns the stovetop off, and he spears a sausage with his fork, looks at it sceptically for a second or two.

He’s not hungry, anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). Requests always open!


End file.
